The Taxidermist
by Moth Mouth
Summary: You wake in the home of an undertaker, you don't know how you got there, but your head is splitting. You're alone with nothing but the glassy eyes of slain beasts, now little more than leathery skin stretched over wire, to watch over you. They are your protectors, and now will be your only friends. A custom story of sorts.
1. Part 1: Au Clair de la Lune

**AN: God damn there's a lot of Pewdiepie fan fictions under the Amnesia category -A- **

**I like him, but honestly. There's only so many Stephano fan fics you can read before you're sick of 'em and everything else to do with Pewdie's fans.**

**Anyway, this is a custom story I wanted to try my hand at, but I don't have the programming knowledge to make it. It won't be chapters so much as parts, as I think it's going to be damn big and I'd prefer to do it in segments. Whoop whoop. /**

My head swimming and drenched in a cold sweat, I awoke to the soft static and crackling sounds of a record spinning under the steady massage of a gramophone's needle. Dull at first as I broke the haze of grogginess and confusion, as it came better into my mind's focus, I recognized it as a voice humming the simple tune of "Au Clair de la Lune".

I had been brought around at the tail end of the song, so it began to repeat before I managed to sit up from the hard padding of the bed I found myself on. The room was dimly lit by an oil lamp on the bed stand to my right, bringing into the light a tall dresser and a wardrobe, as well as the charred wood in a dead fireplace. Above which perched what appeared to be the stuffed carcass of a Northern Spotted Owl.

The back of my skull throbbed in a trail leading up to my forehead and wrapping around my temples, my back ached from laying on this hard bed for who knows how long, and I became grimly aware I was chilled to the point of freezing. The cotton of my shirt had been wet through with what I believed was sweat, but found there was far too much of it to have come from my body. I had either fallen in some kind of water or been doused in the stuff. Either way, it made the cold of this room all the worse. My bones were stiff as I slipped my leg off the edge of the bed, and for the first time since I was a child, I was genuinely frightened something would grab my ankles the second I laid my toes against the hard wood floor. I slumped over to ease my headache.

Where was I? What had happened to wind me up in this strange place? The last thing I remember was going to sleep the day before. Wait, was it the day before? There was no telling how long I'd been asleep, I could have been comatose. Come to think of it, had I ever made it home?

Damn it, I had to keep myself in line. Make sure that I hadn't forgotten too much. My name... Come on, a name...Sam...something... Sam Kellen. That's it. I live, or rather, lived, in New York. In Five Points, a little place in Five Points with broken furniture. It was probably a quarter as big as this house, if the size of this one room was any indication.

I was a detective, there we go. And...damn, that's all I can think of now...Well, it will have to do.

Pensively, I pressed the ball of my toes against the floor and raised myself up, with some difficulty, I managed to stand up straight. My first instinct would have been to stay quiet, but overcome with the immeasurable cold, I ignored my instincts that were tucked away in the warm reassesses of my mind and did not share my body temperature. I sprang to a closet, my steps resonating loudly in the mostly quieted room as I threw open the doors and snatched up the first thing in my reach. A dark ebony coat lined on the inside with brown and black dotted fur that spilled out onto the collar and down the lapels. I hurriedly draped it around my shoulders and wormed as far into it as I could, it being a size or two too big for me. I brought the fur of the collar to my mouth and breathed in to it to warm the tip of my nose. I decided to forgive the musky scent of dust for a comfort in a foreign place.

I gripped tightly to the lapels and carefully stepped back to the night stand, swiping up the lamp without second thought, raising it above my head to illuminate the dark corners it had previously left untouched. With a soft rustling on my new coat, I shuffled to the dresser on the other side of the bed I had found myself on, peeking into the top drawer. A few clothes, folded neatly and placed in order from what seemed to be lightest hue to darkest. The second drawer was mostly empty, but the third was so weighed down with it's contents, I scarcely had the strength to pull it from it's frame. I managed to open it enough to see inside, and found hundreds of pieces of parchment stacked in three piles, from what I could see, the top layers were inked with a delicate handwriting. Although a few were a harsh and much stronger calligraphy.

I set the lamp down once more on top of the drawer and bent down to pick up one of the sheets written in the more careful script.

_Dear Frederick,_

_I hope some day you can forgive me for this. Know that I still love you dearly, as dearly as the first day we met. You remember don't you? When we were only children, you a tanner and I a perfumer. You came to deliver skins my Master Chanticlair had ordered. You had that softness in your coal black eyes, I fell in love with them at an instant and hoped that they were a sight I could see every morning upon my waking. But I can no longer stand being alone. Your late nights in the cellar, those awful stenches you come to bed with. I can't handle it Frederick, I just can't! This house is too large to wander about it alone all hours of the day and night. You're obsessed with those damn bodies and for every hour you spend toiling away with those skins and potions is an hour closer to starvation. I've found someone new, someone who listens to me. Provides for me._

_Please understand, this isn't easy for me. But it's necessary if I'm ever to find happiness, the kind of happiness you once gave me. I pray you can do the same._

_I'll always love you._

_Farewell,_

_Elise_

…

Elise? Wasn't that the name of the woman who lived down the way from me? Or was that Egrid?

I shook my head, in such a state of befuddlement, my more in-depth memories were beginning to mix until they were nothing but a mass of misinformation and unreliability, they couldn't be trusted at this point. Stick to the basics. Sam, Five Points, detective.

I folded up the note and tucked it away against my chest, when I heard the sharp creaking of the floor boards, presumably outside the door. Though for a short second I thought this could have been my imagination, I swept the lamp off the drawer and flew to the closet once more. I climbed inside and brought the doors back in on me, fumbling with the lamp until I managed to dim it.

Au Clair de la Lune still buzzed numbly in the background, the only sound in the room as I forced myself not to take a breath.

One step closer came the creaking, then another, then a... third? A much heavier and harder footstep. No, no, that was a cane. Something wooden, but weighted... The steps were each prominent and proud, not weak or with any sign of weary shambling, so it couldn't have been an elderly person, no, it was someone young with a recent injury. The cane's tapping was uneven, they weren't used to using it yet. More, concentrate more on it so you don't panic.

I closed my eyes, even if it made no difference in the cramped space I had tucked myself in to.

They were at my back, this closet was pressed up as far as it could go against the wall, so they were in the hall outside. I furrowed my brow. The door, I caught a glance of it earlier, it was only a few steps away from the cupboard... Seven. In seven steps they'd be at the door. One...two...three...four...five...six...Hm... No seventh.

Instead there was the loud of metal clicking, a tumbler? Shit, that was the door knob! I had miscalculated, they were at the door, damn it all...

I let out a puff of breath then quickly inhaled to my lungs' fill as I heard the door swing open on it's hinges. I hesitantly opened my eyes again, and through the slightest crack in the closet doors, I caught light filtering through. It was dimmer than a kerosine lamp, or a candelabra. It must have been the lone flame of a single candle.

I pressed myself hard against the back of the wardrobe.

"Fuck!" I heard a man's voice spit, muffled by the planks of wood separating us, "SAM! Where are ya', ya' rotten bastard! I'll find ya', I'll find ya'...!"

His clearly irritated voice faded after the final warning, and his angry steps slammed against the floor, out the door once more.


	2. Part 2: Madman's Best Friend

**AN: Part Two, oorah. Forgive my mistakes, it's five in the morning and I've been up since...all day. Also, the place I ended it in may seem odd, but I'l be posting the journal entry as a separate part. And I had to up the rating for the...uhm. Well the reason should be kind of obvious. /**

Sure that he-whoever he was- had left, I gingerly pressed my finger tips against the doors of the closet and pushed it open enough to see out. The light the stranger had brought was gone, and once more the only sound to break the silence was that of the gramophone. I brought the lantern back to life and stepped out, glancing quickly about. If I had remembered my name correctly, that man knew it, and his voice was unfamiliar to me as far as I could tell. Making sure he was long gone, I poked my head outside the now open door, keeping the lantern behind my back so I wasn't quite so noticeable. The house was indeed of monstrous proportions, as this hall alone spanned into three corridors of incredible length. One could easily get lost if they didn't know their way, and I certainly did not know. Thankfully, my destination had to be easily found. I turned to the window, to the shadow of a tree outside this room. The branches had reached their limit, so this must have been at least the second floor. Get to the bottom floor and you'll find the exit.

Uncertain, I slipped through the open door, with not the heart to push it out any further than the stranger had left it, and pounced into the dark of the halls. The shadows of the blackened mansion were suffocating with undisturbed dust my quick foot steps sent bursting into clouds with every tap of my heel and toes, even as I scampered like the rugs were made from rusty needles. They could have been, not like I could tell the difference when my soles barely touched the floor for more than half a second. As I turned a corner left, I nearly slowed upon the painful thought that the further I ventured into the bowels of this house or castle or, wherever the hell I was, the further I ran from familiarity. I could have waited in that room until morning, or gone out the window, either way there would be some semblance of sound and light and company, even if it was just a song and a stuffed owl I sought camaraderie in. I cast a glance over my shoulder, towards the dying breaths of Au Clair de la Lune as it was snuffed out by the the blanket of cold and darkness on my back.

I couldn't find the strength to revive my lantern, even when I descended into depths where I knew in the back of my mind I was alone, and I paid dearly for it. My eyes pounded faintly with my heartbeat, a constant and maddening hammer against my rib cage, as I strained to make out shapes without the need for my light. It took an eternal five minutes of aimless wandering before I became any good at it, and even then I could barely make out the shape of my hand if I held it to the end of my nose. Every scratch of a rat or cockroach sent me into a flailing whirlwind, not the most fitting behavior for a detective, and then would ensue another minute or so of running before I tired and slowed once more, and I stood at every door for what seemed to be hours just turning handles at a pace that wouldn't make too much noise. My fits of admittedly feminine fear threw me down a few stair cases and although there was no real way of telling how far I had made it without my light bearing companion, I hoped I was going in winding paths that would lead me back to where I came, going around in nauseating circles. Knowing that I was walking in circles would be a relief, that would make it some form of comfortable progress. Repetitive, linear progress but I assume progress all the same?

To my sanity's delight, I came across a door that had been left ajar in this maze of locked rooms and fled for it's sanctuary. Would only be my luck that my sanctuary reeked of formaldehyde and the concoctions used for tanning animal skins. And of course the stench of dead animals themselves.

Although I absolutely, positively did not want to know where I had found myself, I reinstated my lamp's service and brought to life a small room painted with the blood of the slaughtered carcasses of animals strewn about the concrete floor. Their hides were piled in a tower of messily shredded flesh and fur at the side of a barrel, some still hung from the ceiling from meat hooks. Stripped of their skin and innards, the stomachs of these unlucky ones fell in strips of muscle around the gutted hole in their bellies, what was left of their bodily fluids being left to drain into a cobblestone trough of bile and blood and other ungodly substances.

It took only a glimpse before I hurled myself into the nearest corner as my intestines tied around themselves a thousand times in the span of seconds, the sudden re-organization of my organs bringing an acidic taste of sick up into the back of my throat. I held onto my lamp for dear life. The choking stink of chemicals and rot made it all the worse, as I could close my eyes to spare them the burning but not even the thick layer of caked dirt woven into the fabric of my coat could block out the odor. It must have been force of habit that brought the bend of my arm to my nose and mouth when I managed to look up again.

"Wh-What...kind of..!" I gagged on my words and fell silent again when the smell assaulted the back of my throat.

Try to keep calm, Sam. It...could be worse. Far, far worse. And it's only a tannery, a poorly made one, granted, but all the same. This work is never clean no matter how well learned the tanner is, hell you're wearing some right now. You're wearing...fur...right now...  
Damning the cold, I wrenched the coat from my shoulders at this thought and threw it into a pool of the sickly red liquid sticking to nearly ever available surface. I did my best not to retreat back into my vomiting corner and side stepped the piles of bodies left to swing like gruesome wind chimes from the ceiling, trying to make my way to the work space they guarded. I swallowed back the urgent need to regurgitate when one brushed against my shoulder and left a burgundy stain sweeping across the fabric of my shirt. I would have to be sure to burn my clothes when I was free of this place, then myself.

I made it through the bodies relatively unscathed and crossed to the great hunk of metal upon which a few finished skins sat. A rather poorly saw dust crammed squirrel seemed to be the finished product they aspired to be, and beside the work place laid the almost drunkenly tipping body of a bull dog. I think? He looked more like a paper mache project than anything.  
The eyes had been botched and set unevenly in his head, not to mention they were entirely too large for the poor thing's former skull, and the fur had begun to rip at his spine to expose the wire skeleton that molded his body. The misshapen frame was bent in all the wrong places and straightened where it should have curved, so the creature was left in entirely the wrong, off-set shape. On the other hand, while the squirrel's teeth were set in an oddly sporadic pattern and on the outside of his mouth, it was much less frightening. I wondered if the same man that made these made the owl in the room I had previously inhabited, but threw that notion out the window when I looked over the bull dog once more. The owl was at least recognizable as a once living being.

I gave the pathetic dog an empathetic pat on the head as I rose to look about, now that the smell had begun to dull, I had a moment to gather my senses and continue my investigation. It was a small portion of the basement, based on the cold stone the place was built of and the hope that a man wouldn't keep a work space like this anywhere in the main house. The floorboards quietly whispered above my head with every wind that busted against the sides of the house and made it moan down to it's foundation. My heart leapt into my throat like a spring loaded shot the first time I heard it, as it brought to mind a person pacing on the floor directly on top of me, and this lovely room of horrors had wound my nerves even tighter in fear I would be found and suffer the same fate as these animals.  
The dog was a bit of a relaxation method, since I couldn't look at it without the smallest hint of laughter. Even in the state of confusion and terror I found myself in.

I used his malformed mug to assemble enough courage to dare and set my lantern down, rummaging through the dried skins for a clue of one kind or another. As to why I was here, where, or who had taken me.  
There were pelts, stuffed paws of what I could only imagine and hope were from rabbits, vials of chemicals and sheets of paper with scribblings of animalistic anatomy. Ones I trust he didn't follow if these monstrosities were the end result, and if he did, shame on whoever gave him these instructions. Beneath one of these ink splattered pages, I found a leather bound journal, one of the nicer leather crafted things in the house I must say so it couldn't have been made by this man.

I slipped my index finger into the knot that bound the book closed and tugged to unravel it, letting the journal fall open to the page that had been marked by a foreign page. It looked like it had been torn out, crumpled, then forcibly smoothed and placed back in again.


	3. Part 3: February 3rd

** AN: I decided to upload this separately because while it does give some insight into the mind of the antagonist, it's not completely necessary, and some people might like to skip over it. Although it is needed to understand Sam's reaction.**

February 3rd.

I worked today on a child who had been run over by a carriage. Little deary ran into the road after a stray cat, I'm told. She was in immaculate condition, the only injury being the bloated bruise across her stomach. Doctor Parnass believes the cause of death was her insides had been crushed under the force of the carriage wheel. It certainly makes my job easier, no nasty wounds to paint over. A frilly bow around her waist can fix that.

However, I noticed when I was stitching up the inside of her lips, something very odd...They were such a pretty shade of ruby still, hours after her departure from this world where most would have gone blue. She was so lovely, I barely needed any make up to redden her cheeks. Just a moment or two of washing up and she could have been set for display. A perfect corpse. It's always such a waste that works like these are buried, shameful even, wouldn't you agree? I felt that I couldn't let this happen with this girl. She was special in a way, it would be like burying someone alive. I hope you don't think less of my diary, but after I had attended the funeral, I stowed away her body before it could be lost under six feet of earth. Don't think me mad, honestly, I don't believe I am. It's no different than the work I do with animals, and in a way, it's more important. I'm giving her more time, the time she would have sacrificed to death if I had left her there. And don't try to tell me whatever vestiges of her soul left on this plane of existence weren't grateful towards me for my kind doing. Not only did I stave off a very unpleasant burial, I held a dinner in her honor, one that I was not allowed to invite the public to as they wouldn't understand my reasoning. I doubt even in life she sat at the head of a banquet, a very bare one I will say as I haven't the money to hold a proper dinner as of late, but it's the thought that counts. Not even Elise knows of this transgression, and I have no intention of telling her. Even though it has always been her wish for us to bear a child, I doubt she would approve of going about it this way. She'd just be another one of those ignorant knaves, accusing me of the ultimate act of hubris or trying to play God or some other such insult they're fond of throwing around. I already have enough foes, nescient to the good I try to do each and every day. I'm considered a Boogey Man. A frightful shadow thrown upon the windows of funeral homes. An oddity, a freak, a lusus naturae. I provide them with a dreadful service no one else would care to deal with, and I'm punished. Were it not for me, they would suffer the pain of losing a loved one ten fold when they had to witness them worn and torn in their coffin, not that they could find a coffin without me, they'd just lay their family to the ground to be hounded upon by feral dogs. They should all be thankful towards me, and yet they see me as nothing but a bad omen. Like I'm the one that sicked Death on their people. Scoundrels, the lot of them. I'd always thought Elise was different, but I'm beginning to think she's just more of the same. I fear she may be weighing my worth. Lately, she looks at me the way the others do. That dreadful stare down the bridge of their nose, the concern for my sanity or my soul, the pity they lay on the strange little man that prefers his dealings with the dead. It makes my blood boil, just the thought of it. But my true friends never give me that look. They suffer no fear towards me, no hatred nor misplaced anger. They're whatever I want them to be. I've always sought comfort in them and they've never judged me. Think of the wonders of life I could find, if I made all humans like that. I could hold onto Elise forever.

I have a feeling my young friend is the start of something wonderful.


End file.
